Revolutionary
by HetaliaFiction
Summary: While Alfred is learning what it means to lose everything and he's wondering if the revolution was worth it, Arthur tries to get himself through the pain. With reality altered by war and emotions by tragedy, will they ever really find a way to be the same? Or more importantly, to be okay? /Rated T to be safe
1. Chapter 1

Apologies in advance for any mistakes that you may find regarding the weaponry, the battle, etc... If you can correct what I did wrong, please PM me. Thanks!

* * *

His own conscious and wildly unattractive reality belonged to the nightmares that numerous other men, women, and children had dreamt up. A bayonet in one hand, a flag of dreams and hope and opportunity in the other: he gripped both items desperately, clung to what little resolve and sanity and innocence he knew and tried to escape the battlefield he stood on with his imagination, but even his mind, now damaged and contaminated and weak from war, could not carry him away from this condescending and repulsive scene. Of guns, of violence, of hatred and loathing for the simple fact that the colonials wanted their freedom from Britain, he could still not understand the outbreak of such conflict and tragedy. Was it wrong to crave freedom that no one else wanted to give?

He tried to think his way out of it, to remember the beautiful things as they were, and forget the ugly as they came. His thoughts would not allow it. He closed his eyes and tried to think of roses, red and blooming, growing into something delicate and wonderful and beautiful and pure, but his thoughts took him back to the hideous sights he'd seen. To vermilion blood on mangled, unrecognizable faces who would never see their families again, to tears cried in a soldier's final moments, to the red of the uniform the British soldiers wore, and crystalline dew drops began to blossom in his own eyes.

He tried to think of blue, of the sky and how he watched countless birds soar above him on wings made of white crystal. He tried to remember the water, the sea, and how clear and reflective it had been of his own face, but the only blue he could remember now was that of lividity on corpses. Their blue lips and their blue skin and their glossy eyes that stared up at gray skies, unable to switch focus and look elsewhere.

Greens and golds had always been soiled and stained. Grass and leaves were not the things he saw when he saw green. All he saw were sorrowful, yet angry, emerald colored irises blaring down the nose at him. He did not find gold to be an attractive color either. No number of glittering coins in his hand could change his opinion.

Every color was infected with some disease with only two being an exception, but even they were not entirely excused.

The only colors that had yet to be tainted were black and white, colors that did not see death nor life, colors that remained neutral on both sides. They were colors that wore no faces, and yet, to some extent, they were the cruelest colors of all. They were the colors that brought you to life and sought after you in death. They looked for you and gave some sort of cruel care as they suffocated you. They were the colors of night and day, of good and evil, of harmony and balance, and yet, they were the colors that separated everything and severed ties.

And yet, now, Alfred could only hate the colors of the rainbow, colors that once represented beauty, because now all they represented were the calamities of vicious antagonism and slaughter. They watched men die and filled them in as they did so. They stretched outside of the lines and colored in various directions and left horribly sloppy marks across what used to be a face. A face that smiled and cried and was angry. A face that once wore an emotion. A face now shaded in with all the wrong colors that war brought.

For six years, Alfred had stood upon these hills, obeyed orders, did as he was told. He was a soldier and a civilian, living, breathing, and he fought for the sake of his country. He fought for what his people desired, for what he longed for, and yet he didn't realize until that very moment just what it meant to fight for what he believed in. By being a soldier, he was giving up everything. He had given up the right to see in high definition, the right to see everything as it should have been. He had dutifully resigned himself to a gray scale life where he saw only misery and mourning. He saw things the way they were never meant to be. "Alfred. Alfred Jones," a masculine voice said and he shuddered in familiarity and recognition.

Still clinging to his bayonet and to his flag, he got into a defensive stance. He would fight, even if it meant death. He would fight, even if it meant more sorrow, because he'd already cast aside too much to turn back now. He didn't regret his decision to leave Britain behind because liberty, freedom, and the pursuit of happiness were superior to anything and everything he had ever known. "Arthur," he replied carefully, as if to avoid choking on that name...

There was no bite to his voice, as there had been to the Briton's. Alfred wore a mask over his weary expression and hid the tears behind a layer of inconceivable blankness. His eyes were hollow, his gaze empty, and a bitter smile stretched across his lips. "Stop this war, Alfred. Come back home."

"You know I can't do that, Arthur... For six years, I've let my people die... This land is rightfully theirs and it is rightfully mine. I can't turn away from it just because you want me to, and even if I could, I wouldn't do it! I want my freedom, Arthur... Whether you give it to me willingly or if I have to rip it away from you with force, well, I'll do either! This is my land and these are my God given rights!"

"And I'm your God given guardian! Shut up and _just go home_ , Alfred! This isn't your war!"

"Yes it is," Alfred yelled, dropping his flag and his composure. He raised his musket up so it was pointed dangerously at the British soldier standing opposite of him. His temporarily placed mask crumbled. "I'm the one who left you! I'm the one who forsook Britain and England and convinced people to come here! I'm the one who dreamt of a land where you didn't make the rules! I dreamt of a land where you didn't interfere with what I wanted in life, because all you've ever done is screw me up and over!"

The shock in Arthur's emerald irises, the stupor and the devastation, at Alfred's words hit him, but they had still not broken all the way through. He still could not believe that Alfred, once a child, and now a man, stood before him with a gun aimed at his chest. But even if Alfred did fire off a musket ball, the physical pain would never compare to the mental and emotional distress.

This was war in all its glory. It tested loyalty and bonds while it broke hearts and severed ties. It distorted bliss and created images of false joy.

Cheerless and dull, Arthur asked Alfred this time, practically begged Alfred, to come back. He did not order. He did not demand. He simply asked the man who used to be a child to return home with him, but to this, Alfred stood firmer. Something cold and dangerous and distant began to burn in Alfred's blue eyes and his finger quivered around the trigger. "I'm not a child anymore, Arthur, nor am I your little brother. I've made my decision and even if I die, I'll die fighting for it... You don't understand how much I've given up just to be able to stand here... I refuse to go back to Britain so my people can be tried and executed."

"Alfr-"

"You've exhausted me and you've exhausted yourself, as well as your funds... You should have chosen more carefully, Arthur. With money going to Prussia for Frederick the Great's campaign, you have none left to supply yourself with weapons or food... Your soldiers have all but been expended... You have nothing left... "

It was only at this that Arthur noticed Alfred's heavily fatigued eyes, as well as the enormous bags beneath them. Alfred slumped. His posture was not as straight as it had once been and his shoulders rounded themselves off. He was tired, but determined, and even in such a terrible state, he was willing to fight.

Arthur knew very well that he could not pull his trigger, and he was absolutely certain that Alfred could not pull his. So it was with a heavy heart that he lowered his musket and turned to walk away. He stopped and glanced back at Alfred only once, before he shook his head, and vanished into a sunset of reds and oranges.

The American stood stiff, watching as the British soldier disappeared. It seemed like an eternity before he was able to lower his bayonet and pick up the flag he'd dropped so carelessly before. He'd be sure to burn it later and get a new one. This one was tainted, like all the colors of the world, and he hated that he'd allow such a precious object to become so dirtied...

* * *

That night, Alfred tossed and turned beneath the uncomfortable shelter that his tent offered him. Even in the darkness, there was no solace, no peace of mind. If anything, that's when he had to be most careful, most alert, most aware... It would be another sleepless night of worrying and wondering and asking why the war wasn't over yet. It should have been over by now. There seemed to be no end to this madness nor did there seem to be an end to this eternal cycle of death and pain.

He wanted to be done with it all. He wanted this nightmare to be gone. Maybe after this, when the war was won, and the British were gone, he could try and restore the colors he once knew. Maybe he could finally see the beauty in things the way he used to, though it would never be the way it had once been. Times of blissful ignorance were gone. He was no longer a child. He'd watched humans be slaughtered. He'd watched cannon balls blow off heads and arms and legs. He'd touched their blood as it splattered across his cheek. He'd listened to their final words, been there in their final moments, and been the last person they saw before they passed away. No, nothing would be the same.

He accepted that fact, but cast all other negative thoughts aside. Surely he'd be able to repair his now damaged view of the world around him, even if but a little. There was beauty. He just had to forget all the ghastly, ugly things he'd seen. How hard could it be to forget? How hard could it possibly be to leave those sorts of things behind?

What he did not realize, as young and naïve as he was, were that the threads of an old lifestyle could not be picked back up. Try as he might, those threads were frayed and unraveling and were now far from his grasp. What he'd been through, what he'd endured, he could not walk away from. This was his life. These burdens were his own. They were his shadow, permanent, and with him forever and always.

With the weight of the world resting on his shoulders, Alfred forced himself to roll over. He wanted to stop thinking, if only for a moment so he could at least relax, but it was an impossible task to say the least. He was sure at this point that his head was entirely its own entity.

For the rest of the night, he was wide awake, and all he saw were Arthur's pleading eyes... All he could hear was Arthur practically begging for him to come back home, but what Arthur didn't understand was that this was Alfred's home now, as devastated and in ruin as it was. He'd rebuild it, restore it, even if it were only him left to do so. And with the way this war was going...

Alfred sighed and rolled over again, still unable to find a comfortable position that would allow his rigid muscles to seek recreation. Maybe he didn't show it, and that was probably for the better, but he did feel awful about what he was doing to Arthur. Yet at the same time, his remorse came in spurts, few and far between, because Arthur could have just granted him his freedom. There would have been no war, no fighting, no death... Colors would still be bright and vivid and beautiful and wonderful. There would still be emotion on mangled faces, something that wasn't fear or anger or regret. Those men, those countless brave soldiers, would still be alive if not for this war. "Captain?"

Alfred's ears perked and he forced himself into a sitting position. Standing in the opening of his tent was a young teen, handsome in face, but dirtied from the wear and tear six years had put him through. Shocked though they both were at each other's youthfulness, they greeted each other accordingly. "Captain, General Washington's got 'is seventeen thousand troops all rounded up and they're all gettin' ready for battle, sir. He told me to come wake you up."

Nodding, dead to the world and to himself, Alfred finally stood up. He ran a hand over his tired and pallor face and let out a miserable groan. "I'll be out in just a moment, Private."

"Yes, sir. I'll go and tell the General, sir..."

As the 'Private' turned on his heels to take his leave, Alfred stopped him. "Tell me... what's your name and your rank.. I just assumed you were a Private..."

The boy smiled. His eyes were full of life, full of color, and Alfred wished he could be like that again. Did that young man see a rainbow of beauty, or did he, too, see a rainbow of misery? "My name is Allen Watson and I'm a drum major, sir."

"A drum major, huh?" Alfred asked, combing his fingers through his hair. "I wanted to be a drum major when I enlisted, but a bunch of different things stopped that from happening... What's it like?"

Allen looked down. Tufts of knotted brown hair stuck out, unkempt and unclean, and his brown eyes locked with the ground beneath him. He'd only recently woken up himself... "I guess it'd depend on how you looked at it, sir... On one hand, I really like drums and music, so getting to play is really nice... And at the same time..." Allen trailed off, his voice wavering and tears filling his eyes. "I can't stand it... Every time I strike my drum, it seems another twenty men fall to the ground and they just don't get back up, sir. Apologies if I'm speakin' outta line... I just figured since..."

"No, no, it's fine," Alfred interrupted with a mirthless laugh. "And the name's Alfred. You can relax while you're around me."

A dry smile grew on Allen's face. "Alright, Captain."

"No. Just Alfred. Leave the ridiculous formalities aside. We're all human. We're all equal and no title changes that..."

The two chatted for a little while longer, before Allen excused himself and left Alfred's tent. In the meantime, Alfred stood there, redressing himself and fixing his hair and clothes and whatever else needed some sort of adjustment. When he was done, he stepped into the crowded camp, and thousands of soldiers looked his way. He simply looked back.

Briefly he wondered if this was all worth it, sacrificing all these men for this cause. They all had names, families, stories, and here they stood, ready to give everything they had. But then again, he thought, if this wasn't worth it, then how many lives were thrown away? How many countless men had died for this country for absolutely no reason? The number was unfathomable. So he decided that it had to be worth it and such a realization gave him more strength than he'd had in quite a while.

Several other Captains approached and greeted him, shaking his hand, and saying good morning, before he was handed a mug of black coffee and a piece of stale bread. He ate and drank and when he felt he was ready, he escorted himself over to General Washington. They exchanged a look of pity. Both were worn and extremely fatigued, yet neither had been subdued by it. General Washington stood and motioned for Alfred to follow him and follow him Alfred did. "Tell me, Captain Jones, what do you think will come when we reach the end of all this conflict?"

"I know you're giving me two options here, General. Truth be told, I don't know anymore... We either surrender ourselves, get on our knees and lower heads to the British, or we win this fight and finally claim our freedom. But right now..."

"Right now, at this very moment, because of Francois, our French fleet has landed on Chesapeake Bay, just as Cornwallis has chosen Yorktown as his base."

"You mean-"

"I do," General Washington confirmed with a small smile. "This is our time to act. We can surround the British; we can isolate them. The French naval fleet will block the British escape by sea, while we prevent escape on land. What do you think?"

"I think it's about time this war came to an end."

And Alfred meant it. More than anything did Alfred mean it. He was tired of burying people who still had long lives ahead of them. He was tired of looking into glazed eyes and listening to fragmented whispers of farewells and nearly inaudible 'I love you's.' He was tired of touching cold skin and washing the blood off of his hands in a murky stream. And dear God, he was absolutely sick of people dying because of him and for him. It was time this war reached a conclusion, no matter how bitter the end may be.

* * *

I'm not entirely sure where this is going.  
Bear with me.  
But this is **not** the end.  
Thanks again for reading! It means a lot.  
The next chapter will be out and up whenever I have the time to write it. c:


	2. Chapter 2

Cannons. Artillery. Day and night, neither ceased. It was forever constant, endless, and Alfred thought for sure he'd go deaf if it didn't let up. For a week and a half, the sound of cannon balls hitting land and musket balls tearing though flesh and screaming men writhing in agony on the ground were his only lullaby. Again, the beauty in the world was completely gone.

Vermilion exploded in ways it wasn't supposed to, touched places it should never have touched. Blue was not beautiful and reflective. Black and white, again, were the only two colors that did not seem to cause pain because they caused balance, and yet they in themselves were a resplendently beautiful misery. Why couldn't it just end? "You bloody Colonial scu-"

Alfred managed to twist and avoid being torn to shreds by a British infantryman's bayonet, but for all his fancy footwork, the small dagger still ripped clean through the sleeve of his uniform. Eyes wide and mouth hanging open, the American managed to (somehow) hastily grab his flintlock pistol out of his knapsack and fire off a round. It wasn't long before the Briton was coughing up blood and falling to the ground in a clumsy and rather undignified manner. He lasted only a few moments longer and used the rest of his strength to glare Alfred down. Even in their final moments, these Brits were fierce.

But so were the Americans. They had held up well in times when the Crown thought that they'd back down and wither like flowers who had not seen enough sunlight. Yet here they stood, completely spent, and still fighting for all they were worth. Because they all had names and families and stories and the only ones who could ensure that their legacy lived on was them. _All had names... all had families... all had stories..._ "Alfred!"

That voice again. It wasn't as gruff as last time, nor was it as commanding and driven, but it was very distinct to Alfred and he turned with a wild look in his eyes. He hated to admit it, especially now, but he sure did miss when he was little and he could just go running into the arms of the man he was fighting, the arms of his enemy. Often, far too often he realized, he wished he could still be Arthur's little brother.

Nonetheless, he lifted his pistol again and pointed it at Arthur's head. Maybe the pistol was terribly inaccurate when it came to long range shooting, but when Arthur was standing this close... He might as well just grab a sabre and finish the job with a blade instead of a bullet."Leave, Arthur... or I swear to God that I'll pull this trigger."

 _Don't back down. Don't back down, Alfred. You're a Captain of the Infantry. Arthur is your enemy. He is not your brother. He is not your friend. He is a British Loyalist and you're an American fighting for the freedom you deserve_ , Alfred tried to assure himself. _Those days are gone_. But his hand was shaking and the gun trembled with his nerves. "Alfred," Arthur whispered, bushy brows furrowing.

He looked utterly devastated. Centuries of fighting and here he stood, broken before the child he'd raised, losing himself in front of the Colonial that the Crown called a traitor. "Stop saying my name! Stop acting like you know the me I've grown up to be, Arthur! Just leave!"

"Or what?!" Arthur yelled defensively, taking another step forward.

It was at this moment that Arthur could no longer look at Alfred. Too many memories, all young and kind and gentle, whirled about him. When Alfred was a child -when they'd go out into a field not too far away from home and pick flowers and talk about soft, lovely things and the smell of lavender and daisies would open up their senses and the sky was pure and blue- when everything was okay.

Instead, he cast his eyes aside and noticed one of his own soldiers had been shot and killed, very recently, too. The life had yet to completely leave the corpse. There was still color to the man's face, a light flush to his cheeks, and his eyes, though not moving to observe different things, had yet to become completely milky. Realization. Knowing. Arthur understood, as much as he didn't want to, and horror and bewilderment clouded his face. Completely forgotten was Alfred as he dropped to his knees and shook the man. "Pent? Is that you? W-William! Blud, come on now! Hey, blud, come on! Open your eyes!"

He looked from William's face to the hole that had ripped clean through his friend's chest and then frantically up at Alfred, who stood behind him with a look of complete and utter dread.

 _They all had names. They all had families. They all had a story._

Suddenly, Alfred recalled why he hated green and gold, and more importantly, why he hated this war.

Arthur's eyes were burning with disgust and loathing, all ignited by the death of a man that Alfred did not know. But it was those eyes, green and glowing and beautiful, that had made him absolutely hate the color. Gold wasn't much different, although his aversion towards it was not nearly as strong as that dreadful color green. Arthur's hair was an odd shade of gold and it shimmered in the sun like a neatly combed lion's mane. Both reminded Alfred of his caretaker. Remembrance was the last thing Alfred wanted because remembering brought memories and memories brought pain.

That's why, above all else, he wanted to forget. "You shot him!" Arthur yelled angrily, tears threatening to spill, and it took all Alfred had to not break down.

Of course he had shot him. He had to. It was either that man's survival or his own, and naturally, human instinct took over, and to defend himself, he shot one William T. Pent. He just didn't understand why his stomach was churning so ferociously or why his his throat was closing up or why his nostrils and his eyes were stinging like they were. Maybe it was because he'd never seen Arthur so torn up. Maybe it was because now he knew that man's name. "He had a family back in England!" Arthur continued, his voice weak with grief, yet strong with anger. "He was married! He had a wife and two daughters and now, because of you, they have _nothing_! _Nothing_! Because Will won't be coming home!"

They all had names. They all had families. They all had a story.

The jagged hole in William's chest seemed to grow larger. Rivulets of ruddy liquid seeped into the already red British frock coat and darkened the material. Rivulets of ruddy liquid trickled down William's cheek and dripped down onto his slightly swollen stomach. Only rivulets of ruddy liquid, only rivulets, and still, it was so much more. The color red was completely and utterly ruined; it was disgusting.

This man used to be alive. He used to fight for something he believed in, too, and what God given right did Alfred have to condemn the man for it?

"I-I-" And suddenly, Alfred was at a loss for words.

He took a staggering step backwards, flintlock pistol still in hand, and lifted it up just to look at the barrel of the gun. What right did he have to fight for freedom when he had taken another man's freedom away? "Put a bleedin' sock in it and get out of here, Alfred..."

For once in his life, he didn't need to be told twice. With a heavy heart, he turned and began running away from the war, away from the endless death and destruction and the ceaseless bangs and booms erupting from cannons. He ran and he ran and he ran until his feet were sore and his thighs and calves were throbbing with pain. He ran until the world was a messy blur of misconstrued shapes and figures around him. Colors swung to and fro and Alfred shook his head in disdain. Right now, all he wanted was for black and white to embrace him and the rest of the world. Things would be plain, yes, but they wouldn't be painful. No, there would not be beauty, but nothing would be completely and utterly hideous.

He could see. Arthur could see. Everyone could see and no one, absolutely no one, would have to worry about what color something was because there would be no need for color anymore! He wouldn't have to try and repair his broken mind. Things would not become what they were never supposed to be in the first place and the world would be good and- "Alfred! Where in tarnation are you goin'?!"

And then he stopped. His chest heaved and the tears fell harder. Allen was racing after him, drum long since forgotten when he saw a Captain leaving the battlefield. Deserting, perhaps? No, Allen knew better, especially when he realized it was Alfred, a man completely loyal to this cause. "I just... I can't... I-I..." Alfred stumbled for words. "I need to see more than just- more than just death... I just need a minute so I... so I can collect myself."

It was the truth, quiet and spoken in between wheezing breaths and a few coughs, but it was there, and his words were without a doubt sincere, frantic though they may have been.

Allen knew exactly how Alfred felt, and he walked over to the Captain with both sympathy and empathy guiding his footsteps and his next actions. He gently wiped the American's tears away, and then pulled Alfred into a hug, whispering the same soothing words he wished somebody would have whispered to him... And almost immediately, Alfred calmed down, and the two pulled away. A bond of mutual understanding hung between them like a large bridge connecting two mountains. "Thanks, Allen... I..."

"I know," Allen replied gently, before turning to peak back at where the fight was raging. "But we should-"

"Yeah... We should get back..."

1... 2... 3... 4...

A small smile formed on Allen's lips and he turned to head back towards the battlefield, but an unusually loud ringing in his ears, followed by someone screaming his name stopped him mid-step. A loud bang. And then the world around him began to turn on an entirely different axis. The sky overhead changed from blue to gray, and suddenly it was raining. There was no more sunlight glimmering through the canopy of leaves. _What happened to the sunlight_ , he wondered, trying to maintain his focus.

1... 2... 3... 4...

Once clearly defined objects, trees and rocks and even small, green blades of grass, became completely indistinguishable from each other. "Wha- I?"

Then he was falling. Gravity embraced him and pulled him towards the ground, but a pair of arms caught him before he could actually hit the forest floor. "Allen! Allen, no!" Alfred screamed, tears erupting from his eyes and sliding down his cheeks.

1... 2... 3... 4...

No, no, no. No more red! No more death! Another loud bang and then a soft thud and then Allen felt himself being pulled towards a familiar warmth. It was soft, but it radiated so intensely, and he was so incredibly thankful for it. He didn't know why. He just knew that he was cold and he needed some sort of heat source. When he could make out the vague outline of the human who was holding him, he smiled. "A...fr..."

"Shh, shh! D-Don't talk! I have to get you to a medic! I can't- I! Just hold on, okay?!"

 _Why does he sound so scared_? "...s... go'n... on...?"

"Stop trying to speak and just hang on! And that's an order from your superior! Do you hear me, Allen?! Hang on, okay?!"

Alfred stared down at the gaping hole in the drum major's chest and he felt his panic and fears come to life again. He could see almost clean through Allen's body and he didn't like the fact that a human being, living, breathing, and once so very vivid and real, was laying in his arms dying. He knew it was no use trying. A medic couldn't put bones back together. They could suture up skin, sure, but not organs. Somewhere deep down he recognized it as a completely undesirable truth. Allen would die. Once again, that disgusting color red was oozing out of a hole in another man's body. It shaded in the areas of Allen that did not need to be shaded in. "...ti...tles... don... ma...er... 'member, Af...r...ed?"

And in the very near distance, Alfred could hear the beat of drums. Allen's lips curled into a pained smile. 1... 2... 3... 4... 1... 2... 3... 4... The tempo was steady, constant, as dark descended upon the two soldiers in the woods.

* * *

Arthur sat inside his tent, hands over his face. His body shook with fragmented sobs and he cried out in both devastation and desperation. Why did something like this have to happen? William was a good, honest man. For all the years that Arthur had known him, he'd done nothing but try to protect and provide for his family. And now what? All those years spent struggling to keep himself and his loved ones alive had proven to amount to absolutely _nothing_.

The word brought more tears to Arthur's eyes and in that moment he made a vow to himself. He'd do whatever he could for the Pent family until they were all dead and gone. He'd ensure they lived a life of complete and utter luxury. None of them would ever struggle again.

Of course, even that in itself wouldn't be enough to rid him of his guilt stricken conscience. This was a friend that had died for him, for his country, and no payment could ever hope to make up for that sort of debt.

Because nothing could bring the dead back to life. Not money, not material goods, not anything. Life flowed in one direction and once life had been all lived out, there was no going back. "Captain Kirkland?"

"What is it?" Arthur snapped, not bothering to turn and look at who was speaking to him.

Of course, he didn't need to. It was Lord Charles Cornwallis. He knew that voice and he despised it. "We're running out of men. We need more shipped in, but-"

"But nothing, Cornwallis, you fool! Chesapeake Bay was the worst place you could have made base! Now those bloody French frogs have us blocked in with their naval fleet and the bleedin' Americans have us cut off on land!"

"I know, Britain-"

"-Don't call me that," Arthur snapped again.

His voice wavered, but he as a whole did not so much as tremble. His tears were gone now. His sadness was replaced by anger. He stood up, tall and proud, just as the personification of a nation like Great Britain was expected to do, and he stood there, glaring down the nose at such a tiny and insignificant human. "Don't call me that.. as if you even deserve to whisper my name like you know it... And don't you ever, ever say that we need more men 'shipped in.' They're not puppets, you bloody idiot. They're humans and right now, they're out there giving their lives for me. They're dying... _for no reason_..."

Cornwallis shrank slightly, but when challenged, he did not back down. It took him a moment or two before he completely recollected his composure, but when he did, he opened up his broad base of support, rolled his shoulders back, and tilted his head up slightly. Now it was two lions present in one den. Silent ferocity burned between the two of them like a translucent fire, but it was clear who the winner would be. "I did not mean-"

"Yes. Yes, you do did," Arthur interrupted in a low, menacing growl. "You meant it like their lives were _replaceable_. You meant it like they were _nothing more than machines_. If one was lost, another could be stood in its place. Let me tell you...," the personification said darkly, stepping up to Cornwallis until the tips of their noses were almost touching, "...if you dare speak about my countrymen like that ever again, **I** will have your head for it. Do you understand?"

Cornwallis swallowed heavily. His breath grew shallow and he finally broke. When standing next to a man who had lived for centuries, a man who had fought in more wars than he could stand to count, a man who was just as temperamental and fierce as his empire was large, Cornwallis knew he stood no chance. It was a battle he could not hope to win. "Yes, Captain Kirkland."

"Good. Now get out of my tent before I put you out myself."

Just as instructed, Cornwallis took his leave. Arthur was left alone with only his tears as friends and he began to wallow in his misery again. Of all the painful occurrences in his life, this War of Independence had to be the most physically, mentally, and emotionally trying thing he'd ever been through. He wasn't sure how he'd handle it. His heart ached as it was, and right now, all he wanted to do was go home, pick up a bottle of liquor, and drown himself in it. He could numb himself, his senses, his emotions. He could numb the whole wide world and never have to worry about weapons of war again.

He could be free of the chains binding him to America. He could be free of the Crown. He could be free, if only for a little while. But he knew, eventually, that temporary numbness would melt away like snow in the late stages of spring, and then it'd all come back... This painfully morbid reality would hit him again. He'd have to endure the pain. _Again_. He couldn't run away from it, no matter how hard he tried or how fast he ran. _Again_. It'd all catch up to him eventually. "Good God, America... What have you done?" he whispered.

He closed his eyes and everything around him vanished- as if the reality he stood in then had never existed at all. Instead, he stood in a large field. The sky was pure blue and the clouds were white and fluffy and they looked so delicate and soft to the touch. If only he could reach them... Lavender wafted into his nose and he took a deep breath, relaxed by the pleasant aroma. It smelled nothing like blood or death and he was thankful for it. "Iggy! Iggy! Look at what I found!"

"America...?"

Arthur turned on his heels and found himself coming face to face with a small child wearing a white night gown. Big, innocent eyes stared up at him and he found himself falling to his knees. He remembered these days, clung to them like they were his own lifeline, and here was again, standing right inside of them. "I found this weird looking thing! It kinda looks like a worm, but it's a lot smaller and it moves weird and it's green! Do you know what it is?"

"It's an inchworm, America..." Arthur whispered, his voice wavering.

He stared at the small creature on Alfred's chubby index finger and watched as it moved along, stretching itself out, and then bunching back up before it stretched back out again. "Wow! An inchworm, huh? That's pretty cool! I bet he has a family!" Alfred giggled before he ran off with the insect. Probably to try and find more like it.

"W-Wait! America!" Arthur called after him.

Then he was running, too, after a small child who no longer listened, no longer heard his voice. His feet pounded against the ground and he stretched his hand out, as if to grasp what he could no longer have. He, for all his worth, could not to catch up to the young child who had disappeared into a forest. He followed in a desperate attempt to try and catch him, but it was all for nothing.

No matter how fast he ran or how hard he tried, Alfred was gone, nowhere to be seen or heard or felt, and there was no point in trying to catch up to him anymore.

Arthur was completely out of breath. His muscles ached. His mind was reeling. He leaned over and rested his hands on wobbly knees. His head fell and the tears came again, more ferocious and alive than they'd ever come before, and he started crying. He cried for the times when all things were beautiful and easy. He cried for the times that he'd spent in his office, managing his country while Alfred went to sleep in his bed in the next room. He cried for all the times that he could have told Alfred that he loved him and he didn't. How could he let a little boy, so young and easily influenced, go to bed at night without saying, "I love you."

He lifted his head when he heard footsteps in front of him and he hoped, he prayed, he sought after the one thing that it was never going to be again: America. Instead, he found that he was back to the reality he belonged in, and his eyes widened. It was not Alfred. It was a French soldier.

For a moment, he didn't understand. Nothing made sense. Just a second ago, he was looking for Alfred, and now... " _Bonjour_ , Arthur. Long time, no see, _oui_?"

* * *

Alfred stepped back onto the field of battle with Allen in his arms. This was all a nightmare, he assured himself, vivid and painful, but not at all real. It couldn't be. Allen had done nothing wrong. He didn't deserve to get shot, and yet, here he was with a bullet lodged in his chest.

 _There existed happier times in a once upon a time fairy tale._

He stared across the plain. He bore no expression. His face was completely blank, clear of any and all emotion. His eyes, however, were rimmed in red with crystalline dew drops clinging to his lashes, and a tear rolled down his cheek. "One... two... three... four..." he counted, before he strolled into the chaos to carry a fallen soldier home.

With each step he took, he counted out a tempo. 1. 2. 3. 4. All around him, more men dropped to the ground, cursed to never see the light of day again. " _Every time I strike my drum, it seems another twenty men fall to the ground and they just don't get back up_."

He recalled Allen saying it to him a week and a half ago and it made this moment all the more bitter, all the more painful. He wished the world would just come crashing down...

He wished it would end...

"You know, Allen," Alfred whispered dryly, though his cheeks were soaked in tears. "...It didn't mean you had to be one of them..."

 _But we chose to abandon those happier times for reality._

 _And for reality, we chose war._

* * *

The thing is... I know this story is complete crap.  
And I still don't really know where it's going.  
Or how it's going to end.  
Pssh. **I'm terrible**.  
But seriously, if you guys know a lot about the Revolutionary War and you know I've got stuff wrong with dates or something, please for the love of jimbalushi let me know.  
I'd like to make this as historically correct as possible.  
Anyways, thanks for reading!  
Also... anybody see that coming with Allen? owo


End file.
